


"Be Good to Me." I Whisper. (And You Say, "What?" And I Say "Nothing, Dear."

by Moonlights_Inkwell



Series: The Bard and Little Miss [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (light) praise kink, Body Worship, Cock Warming, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, F/M, Jaskier is a hopeless romantic, Oral Sex, Reader is just so in love dude, Shameless Smut, Soft Dom Jaskier, jaskier is a flirt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlights_Inkwell/pseuds/Moonlights_Inkwell
Summary: Jaskier is like a different man in Oxenfurt. It's not a bad thing at all.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: The Bard and Little Miss [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907491
Comments: 3
Kudos: 48





	1. And We Fall Into Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> his fic was going to be a super short and indulgent smut fic, but then it took on a life of it’s own and got to be like 5000 words before I even got to the porn, so now it’s gonna be a two parter. Oops. Also, Jaskier’s looking kinda rugged in this fic, mostly cause I was basing his appearence on how Joey looked during the Love Run era and I’m... weak. And yes I gave him glasses. Why? Who knows. 
> 
> Title taken from That Unwanted Animal

You wake, slowly and without much intent, to the sound of singing. 

It’s not uncommon, these days at least, to be woken by music and laughter. It’s a welcome change of pace from your normal life of travel, fighting and pain, all the laughter and music. Oxenfurt is always so lively and full of music and laughter, even now in the coldest and darkest months of the year. You almost resent that it isn’t a permanent fixture of your life. You've never thought yourself a deeply domestic person, but now in Oxenfurt, you feel... content in a way you've never felt before. 

Not knowing, or caring about, the time, you decide it much too early to even consider opening your eyes, and remain beneath the sheets entangled about you. Fingers curling into the soft, treated furs that cover the mattress, you tug the duvet closer to you, and feel the blankets on top of them shift, weighted and soothing all the while. A lazy grin spreads across your face; it’s so warm, a luxury you know all too well you cannot afford to take for granted. Cracking open an eye ever so slightly, you catch sight of a fire, crackling and popping deep within the arch of the fireplace. Bless Oxenfurt, you think tiredly and close your eye once more. A fireplace in the bedchambers, and the living area. You could get used to luxuries like this. 

You never considered that you’d ever spend any period of time in Oxenfurt, never mind be wintering there, and while it’s wonderful you cannot help but feel out of place. You’ve never been the sort of person to be wealthy or talented enough for a University of such high esteem; daughter of a seamstress, former barmaid, barely able to hold a tune or paintbrush. But along came Jaskier, wonderful, beautiful Jaskier. With Geralt returning to Kaer Morhen for the winter, your bard had asked you, soft and sweet, to join him at his old place of education. He only needed to ask you once. 

The campus is beautiful, warm and comfortable and full of lively, excited youths, so bewitched by their art and school. You understand it, it’s difficult not to be taken in by the beauty of it all, but one thing keeps you weary; the fact that it’s a place of such overwhelming privilege, the likes of which you’ve had next to no interaction with. You’ve always known Jaskier is a man of luxury: his accent, embroidered doublets and silk chemises advertise it in a way that is out of place on the road traveling with Geralt but are common as muck on campus. Everyone here is like him, rich but seemingly playing at slumming as students, as if they too will be traveling bohemian bards rather than what will undoubtedly actually happen, being taken in by whatever court will have them. He’s different in Oxenfurt, too. Not a bad sort of different, but... unusual. Jaskier, your bard, lover and traveling partner, is wonderful, a giddy and excitable fool, who spends much of your time together teasing and goading, is strangely absent. In his place is... someone else. A professor and an adult. It’s hard to believe your bard, a man who sings often of masturbation and hand-jobs with a smug grin, is a professor. A teacher. He’s smart, you’ve always known that, but it’s easy to forget how bloody intelligent he is. 

He plays the fool all too well, well enough that it’s what you think of when you consider him. It’s strange to see him acting so maturely, planning lectures and grading compositions, walking about and advising students, talking about writing and singing techniques. They adore him, it’s written across their faces when you see them together, and the adoration and admiration of him is transferred onto you too. They gape and gawk at you, talking quietly and singing lines from songs that Jaskier had written about you. When you walk together around the halls and cobblestone roads, they rush to you both, mouths full of questions about travel and monsters as well as whatever the hell a cleft or bridge are. It’s so strange. You don’t know how you’re to feel about being watched by these aristocratic students, caught somewhere between hero worship and sideshow attraction. Even in tiny taverns and villages, people look at you as just a girl, aided usually by Geralt’s intimidating frame outshining the various knives you have adorning your figure. The only person who normally stares at you is Jaskier, always in this shocked sort of adoration, as if he can never quite believe that you are real and beside him. It’s sweet and never invasive, always looking but never prying. 

You purr softly at the thought of Jaskier, in this delicate daze of being half-asleep, this is perfection, a comfortable, engulfing warmth and softness, resting on top of soft fur with the love of your life in bed beside you. But something isn’t quite right. Jaskier always touches you, something you silently think must come from a lack of human contact as a child, he always has a hand on your bare skin especially while in bed, on your hip, curled about you like you could be snatched away, forehead pressed into your back, or fingers threaded through your hair. But right now? There’s not any such contact, and it makes you roll over in bed, eyes suddenly wide with realisation. Empty. 

It’s expected, but disappointing none the less. During the week he has lectures in the morning, and leaves you to rest as long as you wish before doing whatever you want until his classes end, usually resulting in your traveling about the campus town, meandering by the market and bakery often. It feels childish, but you hate it, you’re too used to waking in his arms and turning about to kiss him awake. It’s horrible to wake without the comforting weight of his arms around you and the combination of warmth and tickling hair from his chest hair against your back. 

“What in the fuck... is that a scale? In the middle of... what is that?” An oh so familiar voice says loudly, which makes you grin. He’s here, even if not in bed with you, there’s no need to wait about for him to return. He sounds scandalised, you can see him in your head, hunched over a pile of papers, brows furrowed into a look of confusion and annoyance. Adorable. You shift up and attempt to get to your feet, faltering slightly at the comfortable warmth of your sex and the dried fluid on your thighs; eyes slide down to take in your naked form. Bed clothes have never been a necessity with someone as insatiable as Jaskier, hell, even normal clothes are barely necessary. 

“What the fuck?” He mutters, the sound of his voice draws you towards the door, but you stop as quickly as you start. There seems something overly presumptuous about walking to him nude, even if you have been in a relationship for years and have seen each other naked more times than you can remember. Stepping forward once more, your eyes slide across the sight of one of Jaskier’s shirts balled up on the floor where it had been tossed to last night. It’s scooped up without much of a second thought and tugged on before turning to look at a mirror; it’s beautiful, silk and embroidered with bluebells, with a high collar, and is left open to expose the inner curves of your breast, the expanse of your stomach and almost all of your legs. It, combined with the slight swell of your lips from relentless kissing last night and sleep tousled hair, makes you feel strangely beautiful. You don’t often feel beautiful, especially having just woken up, so when you rub your face gently with the fabric and breath in the smell of your lover, you feel your nipples stiffen slightly. Lavender and musk and something so entirely Jaskier fill your senses, and you walk out of the bed chambers, smiling softly as the material grazes your thighs as you do so. 

Gods above, he’s beautiful. Always is, always has been, but still no matter how long you’ve known him he manages to take your breath away. He’s always had such a boyish face, handsome but soft, fitting easily with the childishness he exudes, but winter has seen that change. With him not performing for the season, and needing to look older than his students, his need to shave and keep up appearances has dissipated somewhat. He’s sitting there in an armchair in front of a desk, all curtains drawn and leaving him illuminated by the fire roaring across from him and the candles littered about the table in front of him, shirtless and resting his now stubbled chin on his hand while his hair, longer than you’ve ever known it, frames his face. You like it longer, and he seems too as well, letting you twist and braid it during the evenings while he strums at his lute in front of the fire and tells stories you don’t believe to be entirely true. He doesn’t look older, but instead more mature, like he had responsibilities that aren’t trying to earn as many coins as possible between stolen kisses and avoiding being swatted at by Geralt. His skin is almost glowing in the candlelight and reflects from the delicate spectacles that rest on the bridge of his nose. It’s alien and familiar all at once, and you smile to yourself at it. He had told you he was full of surprises the first night he kissed you, but this was a surprise you doubt even he could have ever anticipated. You’ve taken to referring to this more grown-up Jaskier as Julian in your mind, just to try and separate the two for your own peace of mind, but it doesn’t seem right now. It’s like looking at another side of a coin or hearing a song and finally paying attention to what the lyrics mean; it’s the same but not, and you worry that maybe you’ve spent your entire relationship with the man before you underestimating him. Reducing him down to beautiful fool and verbose romantic, when he’s always been mature, but felt no need to show it. You know from first-hand experience that being serious in the presence of Geralt always makes the air cold and uncomfortable, but now, away from the Witcher and his overwhelming stoicism, Jaskier can be as serious as he wants without souring anything. It’s refreshing. You never thought you could love him more than you already do; but right now? Bathed in golden light, relaxed and without pretention or any semblance of performance? You could marry him on the spot. You’re hardly a creative like he is, but you could write epics about him; verses about his eyes, sonnets about his cupid's bow, songs about the colour of his hair. He curses in what you assume is elder before pushing his hair away from his eyes, and you have to fight back the urge to run to him and tug it back with a ribbon to keep it from annoying him, and so you stay. 

Leaning back against the door, you take him in as best you can and try to dedicate this image of him to memory. Him, soft and comfortable, looking like a real professor, surrounded by the warm brown of the furniture and the golden glow of fire that crackles and pops under the quiet music of him humming whatever is written on the pages, that’s the sort of Jaskier you want to remember. Content. It's a habit you have gotten into since you began courting, trying to keep the most delicate and domestic memories for nights when the traveling gets the most of you, and you wish you could just go home. It’s normally simple things, like when he sleeps in after you, hair haloing around him, long lashes fanning out on his cheeks, or the day when he took you to a field of wild flowers to unwind, and had laughed so loudly the skin about his eyes and bridge of his nose had crinkled like silk moved too quickly, a crown of dandelions and bluebells about his head. He’s so beautiful, and when you’re both old and grey you want to be able to remember just how gorgeous he is. He never truly believes it when you tell him it, as you never believe him when he says how much he believes you to be beautiful. Perhaps it’s why the two of you fit together so well. Insecure fools, finding security in the other’s arms. It takes him a moment or two to glance up from the papers, but as soon as he does, he gapes at you, lips parted and eyes raking across your frame and back up to your face once more. It’s quiet, but you clearly hear the soft gasp that comes from him, which makes you smile sweetly to him and tilt your head to the side. 

“Good Morning, Dandelion.” Your voice is low and scratchy with sleep, pet name rolling easily from your tongue. It feels like a foolish thing to say, but every other thing that had come to mind was hardly better. “What are you doing?” The bard says nothing but grins and pushes himself back into the seat, opening his arms wide gesturing you onto his lap. It’s all the encouragement you need to walk over and clamber onto his lap, his arms wrap about you and tugs you closer still, burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Afternoon, Dear Heart. It’s mid-afternoon.” He murmurs into your skin. “You looked so peaceful; I couldn’t be responsible for waking you when you were so blissful. Besides, I had compositions to overlook.” Squirming, you try to turn to look at the sheet music, but Jaskier holds you tighter still, face burrowing even further into the curve where your throat meets shoulder, his words make his lips brush against the sensitive skin, like kisses aborted before truly meeting their destination. “This chemise looks awfully familiar-” 

“It looks better on me, Dandelion. Don’t you think?” 

“Everything looks amazing on you, Darling Dear.” He says softly and presses a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth, and then one to the tip of your nose. “I’m quite sure you could wear rags and still be the most beautiful woman to have ever walked the earth.” 

“Flatterer.” You grin and rest your hands on the thick, downy fluff that covers his chest. 

“I thought it sounded nicer than saying everything looks beautiful on you, but...” 

“But what?” You ask when his sentence dawdles to a stop without ending. 

“But I prefer you in nothing at all.” He grins, and despite all the ways his appearance has changed since the two of you arrive, you see your playful, boyish bard once more, all too proud of himself for having found a complimentary way of saying he wants you nude once more. It’s flattering, always will be flattering, that Jaskier loves your body in ways that you never have but you slap his arm playfully, more for your own sake than his; so you can pretend that you didn’t just consider stripping the shirt off to make his grin turn to the same flustered smile it always turns to when you exert any modicum of control over your bedroom activities. For all his experience, and your lack thereof, all it takes is you acting like you know what it is you’re doing to turn your Dandelion into a blushing, nervous mess of a man. The thought of his pink cheeks makes your own flush, and you try to distract yourself. 

“What’s the time?” 

“Doesn’t matter in the slightest, Dear Heart. It’s a weekend, and you were so peaceful. I assumed after last night you would need all the rest you could possibly get.” The smug little grin that breaks across his face makes you blush harder. It had been a long night, and the thought of it sends a rush of heat to your sex. 

“O-oh.” You laugh weakly. Jaskier cups your cheek and pulls you into a soft, chaste kiss, the kind that makes your heart stop entirely for a second or two. His lips are softer here, not chapped and chafed by wind and travel, just plush and inviting. Just as you start to melt against him, and a hand travels up to grip his shoulder, he pulls back to glance back at the paper once more, “...Sorry. I must be distracting you-” 

“My favourite kind of distraction, My Love.” He squeezes your hips softly and tilts his head, “And I will never be too busy for you,” He pulls you closer still, chest pressed to chest, to rest his chin on your shoulder, looking to the papers once more. You’re sure it’s accidental, but he drags your bare cunt along his thigh, and you bite back a moan. “Especially seeing as you’re so bloody warm, like a little bed-warmer.” 

“A bed-warmer that you’re ignoring for music?” You tease, and one of his hands slips under the shirt to rest on the warm flesh of your waist as he shakes his head, sending chestnut hair brushing against your cheek, your own hand threading through the hair of his chest. 

“I’m not ignoring you. Gods, no one could ignore you if they tried. I just... I simply have to look over these compositions.” His voice is distant and distracted, he’s a thousand miles away, and you decide to try to be a good little bed-warmer, as he so eloquently put it, trying to stay still and keep him warm. You aren’t sure how long passes before you begin to shift, could be a second or an hour, but Jaskier’s thighs are not the most comfortable resting place you can imagine, so you shift up onto your knees for a second, using the added leverage of height to shift closer towards him, accidentally brushing your hips against his in your search for comfort, but instead only feel a familiar stiffness against your sex. The shock draws a soft gasp from you, and that makes Jaskier chuckle lowly. 

“Oh. I... You. You’re hard.” The words come out breathy and virginal, as if the idea of the man you’re sat atop of being attracted to you is some sort of strange impossibility rather than being obvious. He spends his nights with either his tongue or his cock buried inside you, but were someone to have heard that weak little statement, they would have assumed that You had never been so much as touched before in your life. Jaskier appreciates the absurdity if the chuckle he breathes out is anything to go by at all, you feel him turn his head and then the heat of open-mouthed kisses being pressed to the crook of your neck. Kisses there have always made you feel vulnerable, made worse by seeing what beasts could do if they got their teeth that close to your jugular, but Jaskier isn’t a beast. He’s barely like a man, more like a dream you’ve created for yourself, and he always kisses you there. He must like the vulnerability it makes you feel for the frequency he kisses it. 

“Have been since I saw you in my shirt.” He murmurs, quiet as though it’s a confession of sorts, head shifting slightly to brush his nose across the column of your throat. “It’s quite difficult to not be hard when you look so... Debauched.” 

“Debauched?” 

“As sin, My Love. Fucking... hair wild, neck bruised, tits barely covered... And in my clothes? Melitele, I cannot imagine anything more debauched.” 

“Your cum is dried on my thighs too.” You all but sing out. The reminder is all the encouragement he needs to reach down and trace lute-calloused fingers across the crust of spunk at the top of your legs. They don’t remain there for long, however, travelling up to trace across your slit. 

“And your soaked cunt too.” He says lightly, digits trailing across the seam and gathering as much of the wetness as he can, stopping just above the place where you need him most to bring up the fingers and slot them into his mouth, sucking on them with a purpose. The whine that escapes your mouth isn’t dignified in the slightest, but neither was the way he was dangling exactly what you want in front of you without letting you indulge. 

“Don’t tease, Jask-” 

“I’d hardly call this teasing, especially compared to your coming out here in nothing but my shirt-” 

“Julian~” You whine weakly. Using his birth name is so uncommon to you that you almost trip over the word, but it achieves some sort of reaction from him. He pulls back and stares at you, a hunger in his eyes as his pupils grow wider and trail down your body, lingering on your cunt for a second longer than the rest of you, then looking up to meet your gaze again. You know his usual lust filled gaze, light and flirtatious and appreciative but this is... hungry. Ravenous, as if he’s been denied you rather than staring at his own handiwork, littered across your body and encouraging his staring. 

“No, Dear Heart. I have such a lot of music to review and grade. My students will be disappointed if I don’t do it quickly. So disappointed.” His voice is pointed but you know from the look on his face that he’s playing, with you and himself. A game to see who cracks first, one you have no interest in playing. You have absolutely no interest in making him beg for you, or begging for him, you just want to feel the blissful drag of his cock in and out of you. “Don’t be selfish. You get to have me all year, and these poor things only have my genius to consult for the winter.” Genius. You aren’t entirely sure about that, but watching him speak, all you can think of is him putting his clever mouth to work on you. 

He moves quickly, hands removing themselves from your skin to pick up the papers while his chin returns to your shoulder once more. It's infuriating, so you tug at his chest hair like a petulant child. 

“But you’re hard!” You whine out in utter indignation. 

“I know, Dear Heart. Your cunt is against my cock, of course I’m hard.” Jaskier says slowly, as if talking to a small child. “But, I’m also a professor who needs to overlook my student’s work.” He’s right, you know that he’s right, and it’s hardly as if Jaskier is some brute who leaves your needs ignored but, Gods, you’ve been wet since you saw him, and the thick ridge of his cock against you is hardly helping your situation. “You can feel how much I want to fuck you, Darling. Gods above and below, the things I want to do...” He sounds defeated, and you turn your head to gently peck his cheek. “But, truly, I do need to look at these.” You nod quickly and gnaw at your lip; you aren’t being fair, and you know it. 

“Then look at them, Buttercup. I’ll just... keep you warm.” You smile sweetly and he nods then pecks your cheek. 

He’s busy. You know he’s busy, but he's still hard and it isn’t helping your situation. Memories of last night, specifically of how it had felt to sink down on him while his mouth worked about your nipple, comes to mind too which causes your hips to rut against his subconsciously, drawing a growl from the bard. It’s not a noise you know well, coming out when he feels slighted or is especially engrossed in a song, but it sends a rush of heat to your cunt once more and you desperately grind your hips into his again. This is not keeping him warm, your mind chides you, but the feeling of the lacing pressed upward by his tenting trousers rubbing against your clit is enough for you not to care about how you had promised to keep him warm. The only thing you care about right now is chasing the feeling of overwhelming pleasure. 

“You... are toying with things beyond your control, Dear Heart.” He murmurs darkly, pulling back to stare at you once more and only serves to intensify the blush that is spread across your cheeks. Beyond your control? Jaskier? The thought makes you giggle. 

“I am... I’m just trying to... warm you up.” The words come out stilted and gasped between each circling movement of your hips against his. “You. You said you... were cold. I’m trying to be a good... bed warmer.” 

A good bed warmer? Not at all. You want to be a good partner, a good woman-desperate to feel your lover's cock buried to the hilt inside of you; the blissful stretch that it causes, his hands guiding you gently in your ministrations. Even without his prick being free, you move against him as if it is, hips gyrating and tits bouncing with each movement, you try and pretend that the feeling of coarse lacing against your clitoris is all you need. In all honesty, it almost is, especially when Jaskier gives up all pretence of working and allows his hips to buck up and grips your hips tightly enough to bruise, guiding each circling motion that your hips make. You can almost feel the ridge of his cockhead through his undergarments, and sink down on it enough that the fabric covered tip almost sinks inside of you before you pull back and return to rubbing your sensitive nub against the fabric. All too soon, you feel yourself lifted onto the table and whine, trying to grab at him but stop when you see Jaskier scrabbling with the ties of his under clothes, finally pulling them loose and shoving them to just beneath the delicate curve of his bottom. It’s seldom you get to see him so desperate he can barely undress himself, but you don’t allow yourself to admire that for as long as you should like to, because of what catches your eye. His cock stands freely, the base framed by dark curls that creep up onto his stomach and into the thicket of hair across his chest, which makes your mouth water in a way you don’t understand and never want to. You just know that the thickness and slight curve of his member makes you want to sink to your knees to wrap your lips about the leaking, pink head and listen to the breathless moans that doing so always draws from him, prettier than any song that you’ve ever heard him sing. Without second thought, you try to push yourself off of the table to settle on the floor and take him in your mouth but are tugged unceremoniously back onto Jaskier's lap. 

“But-" You start, only to have Jaskier cut you off before you can voice your complaint. 

“Hush.” The firmness of his voice silences you immediately, his hands guide you up to his member before one slides down to the puffy lips of your sex, spreading them before tugging you down onto him. The manoeuvre is hardly ceremonious, but it’s worth it to finally have that which it feels like you’ve been wanting for hours. The sensation of him splitting you open makes you moan loudly, hips returning to their frenzied bucking to try and reach climax, but your enjoyment is short lives seeing as your desperate canting is stopped by the tight grip on your thighs holding you in place. 

“Jaskier?” 

“I thought you wanted to be a good bed warmer, Dear Heart.” His voice trills and you still. The way he says good is enough to make your breath hitch and heart falter. 

“I do-" You’d go to the end of the world for the slightest praise from the Bard, and the way you admit to it makes him grin, and cup your cheeks in both hands, trusting you enough not to move simply because you want to be good for him. 

“Then be a good little darling and stay still for me, if you would.” All previous dark hunger that had edged his voice is gone, replaced with his usual childishness once more. You almost wouldn’t realise he was doing anything sexual at all were it not for him having just speared you onto himself. The strangeness of the situation makes you clench around him, drawing a moaned out curse from his lips. 

“But you're inside of me-" 

“You just said you wanted to keep me warm, Pet.” He says slowly, as if speaking to an untrained dog, and the newfound pet name is hardly doing much to dissuade that thought from your mind. “But we aren't in bed, and seeing as you made this mess, I suppose being a cock warmer rather than a bed warmer will have to do.” The candidacy with which he says the term makes you blink. Sometimes, you think, Jaskier forgets that he’s the only man you've ever been intimate with, so terms like... cock warmer, that he throws about like they’re nothing brings a nervousness about you. You don’t know what that even means, but it distracts you from the fact he had just implied that him being aroused by you is a ‘mess’. 

“A... cock... warmer.” You say, leaving a good few seconds gap between each word. The uncertainty in your voice is obvious, and the man inside you chuckles slightly and mumbles something to himself that you can’t quite make out, but sounds like ‘corrupting her’. 

“Sorry Darling. Look at me, throwing about terms you don’t know and acting as if you should.” He sounds genuinely apologetic, but there’s a level of something patronising to his words that you’re not sure he even knows is there, yet intrinsically sets off a need to argue within yourself that you’re barely capable of choking back. “I want you to sit here, looking as radiant as you always do... Debauched and in my clothes, my cum dried on you, with my cock inside of you. But. You cannot move.” He says it simply, as if it's a term people should already be acquainted with; factual, like he’s trying to teach you something new, and your core tightens around him. You wonder, dazed, if that is the tone of voice he uses when teaching his pupils about music. 

If so, you might have to sit in on a lecture. Or have him teach you about music in the privacy of your shared chambers, where you can shove a finger or two inside of yourself to alleviate the want that is developing between your thighs. 

“I can't move? But why?” You wanted it to sound inquisitive, but instead your voice comes out as a whine, and Jaskier grins at that. 

“Think of it as a game, Darling. To show who has more resilience to the other. Who will... fall victim to the carnality of being so close, but still not... fully intimate.” He's so confident that it is almost infuriating, made more angering still by the way he gently brushes his lips along yours as he speaks, refusing to fill the gaps and just kiss you. It’s already almost more than you can bare, hand slipping down to rub at the swollen bud not two inches from where his dick is resting inside of you, but feel it pinned to your thigh before you can so much as brush a finger across it. 

“No, no, no, Dear Heart. If this is a game, then that is cheating, no?” You want to slap the smug smile off of his face, or force your tongue into his mouth, either would please you. “You cum from me, or not at all.” And with that, his earlier predatory smile is back in full force, making you shiver. “If you can stay still for me while I mark these compositions then I'll fuck you the way you want me to. That seems a fair deal to me, don’t you think?” He grins, toothy and wide, and you nod wordlessly. 

“Good girl.”


	2. And You Rip My Ribcage Open (To Devour What's Truly Yours)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tries so loud to love you, so you try to return the favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is part 2 to my Oxenfurt fic, which might turn into an actual series, oops.I meant for this to be straight up smut, but then it became all emotional and junk, sorry. Also, apologies to anyone who doesn't have a praise kink- cause the light praise kink from the first has become a fully formed one.

The time you spend settled on his lap starts to meld together after a few minutes. Seconds, minutes, hours; they mean nothing to you. With your head resting on his chest, all that matters is the thickness filling you and trying desperately not to move. You ache, ache, in such a blissful sort of way. You’re used to aching these days, but it’s usually a burning in your calves from long days of walking, or arms from trying to wield a weapon; this aching is different entirely. A warm burn in your cunt from being filled so completely, in your thighs from sitting with parted legs over the firm muscle of Jaskier's legs, an ache in the pit of your stomach from forcing yourself to be still and not just ride your bard until you cannot string together a coherent thought. It would be easy to do. To just abandon your resolve and buck your hips frantically to chase the bliss that you're being denied, but you don't. It would be so easy to do, but you know waiting will bring something better than the rapidly earned and quicker lost feelings you get in riding Jaskier. Riding him is what you know best seeing as it’s what you find happening most often, done with mouths covering each other to muffle moans when desperate on the road, fast and without the lingering touches that are reserved for nights when you can afford to take your time. You want to take your time. 

Sex, fucking, making love, whatever you wish to call it, with Jaskier is wonderful whether in stolen moments or drawn out nights, but you can’t pretend to not prefer it when you take your time. It’s selfish, in part, because of how much attention your lover blesses you with. He’s generous and deeply skilled in bed, it feels religious on his part; some worship Freyja, some Melitele, some just the land, but Jaskier? He worships your body, every inch he can lay eyes upon and others that he cannot. Spends hours at the altar of your body, whispering psalms of love into whatever skin he can press his lips to, tracing prayers onto your clit, moaning praise while thrusting into you like it will bring him salvation. He lays hands on yours, and you imagine were a god to listen, the sound of flesh on flesh must sound like applause. It’s beautiful, the feeling of being so wanted and adored, but there’s something beneath it that worries you, how other lovers must have treated him to warrant such revelry in these moments, where the simple act of bringing you pleasure is enough to see him cum untouched on more than one occasion. That is why you take such pleasure in returning the favour to him, spending nights bathing him and wiping him free of concerns with whatever washcloth you can find and peppered kisses along the soft skin of his shoulders, with his cock in your mouth and trailing the tips of your fingers along the meat of his thighs to draw quiet curses you don’t understand from his tongue. It isn’t much, to your mind, to let him know how you care, but he laps it up, is left glowing and tearful, clutching you like you’re the only thing tethering him to this world. It’s beautiful to see him like that, overwhelmed and satiated to the point where he asks you to sing to him. You always do, out of tune and unsure, but it makes him smile and press kisses to your wrists. 

The thought of that is enough to distract you, so much that you don't notice how you clench around him. He groans at the feeling, but still your attention is taken by the thought of how beautiful he looks when he falls apart and don't notice the hungry way that he's eyeing you from the corner of his eye. 

This was a bad idea, and Jaskier had realised that the second he had pushed into the plush heat between your legs; he had hoped, in vain that the feeling would be enough to sate him until the papers had been graded, but that had been a bad idea. Terrible really. The feeling of you on top of him had been distracting, but the feeling of being inside of you, clenching around him while dripping onto his thighs and trying to steady your breathing? That was more than distraction. This is heaven and hell merged into one, fashioned into the heavenly being that he was lucky enough to have love him in return. The compositions were boring and uninteresting in comparison to the wet hot cunt squeezing him, the bare tits pressed to his chest. Awful idea. Especially when framed as a game. You’re competitive, and he knows that, you won’t just give in and begin to ride him- and even if you did he knows he won’t be able to let you do it for long. 

“Darling?” He murmurs, which finally takes you out of your thoughts and leaning back to look at him. 

“Yes, Professor?” You ask teasingly, watching with glee how the term makes his cheeks and ears flush a deep pink, grinding your hips against his and listening to the soft moan it brings from him. It’s like music to your ears. 

“F-fuck.” He chokes out, and grips your wrist. “Muse, I want to-" 

“I thought we were playing a game, Dear Heart.” You cut him off with a smirk. “To see who breaks first.” 

“We are.” The words come out reluctantly, like a sinner confessing to their acts. 

“So, are you breaking, Professor?” 

“If you call me that again, I cannot be held responsible for what I do.” Jaskier says, voice low and dangerous before muttering your name and sliding a hand down the soft expanse of your stomach down towards your slit once more. “You’re so fucking beautiful..." 

“Are you breaking?” Is your only response, shivering as the lute calloused fingers rest on the mount of your sex. 

“I’d hardly say being inside of you for half an hour is breaking as much as it is finally falling victim to you.” His head tilts up as he speaks to press his lips to your jaw. Falling Victim, he says, like you’re an animal or a force of nature, beautiful and to be reckoned with. His songs about sex are funny, and bawdy, with near grotesque levels of detail, but this is nothing like that; he’s confident, overly so, but he's always vulnerable. The same vulnerability that was in his eyes the first time he kissed you, drunk on wine and dancing in the streets of some backwater town you can’t remember the name of, it’s a look of someone baring free his soul and praying that it won't be thrown aside. “I won’t do a thing if it’s not what you want.” 

Do other people say such things, you wonder as he speaks against your jaw. He’s the only person you have ever been intimate with, the only person you want to be intimate with, but you can’t see such compassion being the norm. Back home, you would watch people stumble in and out of bed with one another on a whim, stopping only when married- and even then, that didn't necessarily stop them, and you can’t imagine a single one of them saying things like that. Sex, for them at least, was about the pleasure of the moment, but Jaskier makes it so much more than mindless rutting in the hope of climax, he makes it mean something, needs you to know that it means something; even before you admitted that you loved him, it meant something, to allow him to touch and be touched by someone who knows him and his flaws, and loves him anyway. It’s only as long as you want it, you think, as long as you'll have me- his words echo in your ears. You want it, want him, more so than you have ever wanted a single thing in your entire life, but you don't quite have the words to verbalize such feelings, so you just smile and shift to kiss him chastely. You aren’t a poet like him, but he always understands what you mean. 

“I am weak, my love, and I am Wanting.” You say softly, swallowing back the lump developing in your throat at the smile that overtakes his face. It’s from one of his songs, though the name of it escapes you. It’s one of the ones where you pay little attention to the words to focus on the intent look on his face, and how he fingers the frets of the lute, voice dropping to a melancholic near whisper at weak and wanting. You’ve said it but once before to him, the night of your first kiss, and don’t know if his smile comes from memory or the kind of pride that comes from people appreciating his work. He’s so bloody prideful, it’s warranted, but still humorous to watch him puff up at any and all compliments like a little songbird. 

That’s all it takes for Jaskier's arm to fly out behind you, and you hear the sound of papers fluttering and something metal clattering to the ground before you're pulled off of him and placed unceremoniously onto the desk. All that time spent staring at those papers only to throw them to the ground and put you there in their place. Unexpected? Yes. Unwanted? Absolutely not. It takes all of your willpower not to make some sort of jab at him for pushing such important compositions to the floor, but somehow you manage it, mostly out of a concern that the jest would have him change his mind. The chill of the wood is near overwhelming against your hot skin, and you cross your legs on instinct. That dark look that had been in his eyes earlier has returned tenfold, barely any of the stormy blue visible around wide pupils. It’s animalistic, and it’s intoxicating, only deepened when he rests his hands on your knees and pries your legs apart as gently as he can, eyes taking in your bare sex as it is revealed to him once more. Debauched, he called you, for being in his shirt, but this is so much more than that, nude and exposed to him while he sits there, cock standing to attention and staring at you like he is a starving man and you a banquet. He heaves out a sigh, and the cold air hits the wetness, making you shiver in return. 

“Jaskier...” 

“God’s above, Muse. You're just perfect, aren’t you?” He whispers, but his eyes aren’t on your sex any longer, or even on your body, but instead are focused intensely on your face. Were you any less used to the moonstruck looks he shoots your way; you’d be shocked at the softness behind that hunger, not like a beast looking for prey, or a child staring at pierogi, but like someone taking in a painting for the first time.. “I’ll never know what I’ve done to deserve you.” 

“Lived. Breathed.” The thought leaves your lips before you have a chance to swallow it down, “I love you.” 

“I love you more than you will ever comprehend, My Darling-heart.” He whispers, “I plan on showing you that every day until the sun burns out,” before he leans in and drags his tongue across your sex. 

It’s bliss, feeling him finally touch you where you’ve needed him most. His clever tongue is circling around your sensitive nub, two fingers thrusting into you slowly until he hears you breathe out a moan of relief, at which point he takes to sucking gently on your clit. It's too much and too little all at once. He moves slowly, almost too slow, but he always is- makes the build-up as slow as possible to let you fall into that moment when your eyes go black momentarily before bursting back into light. La Petite Mort, he calls it, the little death. If that is what death feels like, then you welcome it with open arms. He speeds up the thrusting of his fingers and looks at you in a fashion you can only describe as predatory, it’s enough to make you clench around his fingers, hand flying to his head and tugging at thick, long hair with abandon. It’s soft, and with it tugged back off of his face you could almost fool yourself that you’re in some dank inn or secluded corner of a tavern instead of the luxury of an Oxenfurt room. Something must be wrong with you, to be imagining such places rather than here, but the familiarity of your imagined surroundings has you moaning much louder than you ever could there. He moans softly, and not for the first time you think to yourself how he seems to get just as much pleasure from this situation as you do. His fingers crook suddenly, all at once hitting that spot within you that makes your eyes roll back, and coupled with rapid, kittenish licks to your bud your thighs begin quaking. He smirks and pulls back to pepper soft kisses to your thighs listening to the whispered complaints you spill without shame. 

“You're a picture, Darling.” His voice is little more than a growl, muffled by your flesh, making your skin turn pink with the compliment. The skin about his lips is wet with your own fluids and all you want in the world is to kiss him, taste yourself on his lips. “The most perfect entity to ever Grace the world- my muse. My perfect muse.” He compliments you so often that the words almost have no meaning, but your chest still puffs up at them. You don’t know if the words are for your benefit or his but you would never ask him to be quiet. A world in which Jaskier is silent is one you don't want to live in; he always speaks, sings, even snores. There’s never a second when he does not talk, his constant stream of consciousness is a signifier of normality. You adore it. 

“Flatterer.” 

“No such thing. Flattery implies lies, all I’m doing is reporting the facts.” 

“Even your most honest songs are highly exaggerated, so forgive me for not believing you.” He crooks his fingers once more and smirks as your back arches off of the table. 

“Those songs are told for coins, Dear Heart.” He smirks, leans down laps up from where his fingers enter you up to your nub once more before pulling back. “There’s no one to deceive or earn coin from here, just the love of my life spread out before me, hearing me tell her how much I love her.” 

It’s enough to make your eyes water, both the words and stimulation. Love of my life, that’s a new one, he’s never said that before. The pet names are always welcome but this one makes you stop for a second. There’s something final about that, a love that lasts forever, true love, love of my life. A love of your life is the sort of thing people sing about, tell tales of, travel to the ends of the world for, die without, and there he is- right in front of you. He is, you think, the love of your life. You want him by your side always and forever; want him now, want him when he's old and grey, want everything in between. Your hand flies to his head while sniffling back tears. 

“Dear Heart?” He asks meekly, concerned that his words have upset you somehow. “I’m sorry, Darling. It was too much wasn't it? Of fucking course, it was. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think, gods above, I suppose I never think, do I? Oh, Love; I didn't mean to upset you.” He says frantically, fingers pulled out of you quickly and sliding back into his seat, his own eyes wide and worried. “I shouldn’t have sprung that on you, that’s just how I feel. I’m not asking you reciprocate, not at all! Please don’t cry, My Love, please. I just... I love you- of course I love you, I’d have to be mad not to, you’re wonderful and beautiful and-" 

“I’m the love of your life?” The words are whispered, but hang in the air as if they were shouted. They don’t need to be asked, still, you want the confirmation. 

“O-of course you are!” Jaskier leans forward once more, hands resting on your knees while you push yourself into sitting position. “You’re... You. You understand me, love me, I... I want to spend every second of every day with you. You’re my muse-" He stumbles over his words, but clearly has more to say so instead you surge forward to kiss him, chastely. Little more than the brushing of lips against lips, but it’s enough to silence him. 

“Good. You’re mine too.” It doesn’t sound right, so you clear your throat and try again. “You're the love of my life, Jaskier.” You sound more confident than you ever have when you lean back, watching how his face lights up. 

“You mean it?” 

“No, I’m lying.” You retort sarcastically, smiling when his nose crinkles with a wide grin. “Of course, I mean it, Dandelion. It’s hardly something I’d like about.” 

Less than a second later, he's on you again, holding your cheek and guiding you into a kiss. His lips are so soft, and you press in further, as if you kiss him hard enough the two of you might become one. Parting your lips, you allow his tongue access before his tongue can do more than brush against the seam of your mouth, and guide the wet muscle across his. He tastes like you, apple cider, and himself, and you’re convinced that this is what ambrosia tastes like. Your hands slide up his chest to rest on his pectorals while his remain on your cheeks, thumbs gently brushing lazy circles into the skin. He’s on top of you, knees bracketing you in place on the desk, tongue gently trailing along your own- it’s delicate and familiar, a feeling you would know blind or in the dark, even in spite of the scruff tickling your chin. 

“I'd marry you this second if I could.” He mutters into your lips and you giggle, pulling back to eye him playfully. 

“A hell of a place to propose, Buttercup.” 

“I’m not proposing now.” He says earnestly, thumbs never stopping their circling. “Nowhere near romantic enough for my tastes. Oxenfurt? Never. There'll be stars and a picnic, no. A ball. No, a song I’ll write you a song, the greatest declaration of love that the world has ever seen!” He babbles, rapid-fire until you say his name. “I just. I want you to know I want to.” 

“I’d like that." You admit, moving a hand to cover his. “I don't need a song or a picnic or a ball, Julian. Just you.” Oxenfurt is more than romantic enough for you, were he to propose now, a pig pen would be more than romantic as long as the two of you were together. He smiles and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. 

“It will be romantic.” He vows, and you know it’s true so you just smile and nod. It’s almost enough for you to forget what the both of you had been up to, but then you feel it. His cock throbs against your thigh. Your eyes dart down quickly to it, and almost gape at the sight; the head is purple with want, and dribbling something near transparent onto your skin. You haven't so much as laid a hand on him but here he is leaking as if he's been on your tongue for hours, you feel awful at the lack of attention you've given him. 

“Sorry.” He chuckles, “You have that sort of effect on me.” 

“I want to suck your cock.” 

It’s blunter than you would like, but it’s the truth. You don’t usually speak so candidly about things like that, but you can’t think of a single innuendo or euphemism to get the point across. You want his cock in your mouth, have done since you left the bed chambers, and his confession of love has only intensified the want even more. You want nothing more than to please him, to hear him whimper out your name between curses and moans. It’s a simple want- his pleasure, for all that he lavishes you with it. Normally you might feel some embarrassment at speaking candidly, but now all you feel is want. He chokes. 

“Melitele's tits.” He curses, shifting back from you with bright red cheeks, hair falling across his face, as if trying to mask his shock, before coughing and glancing away to collect himself, to try again. “When did my darling Dove develop such a foul mouth?” The irony of the situation doesn't escape you, he's all but proposed to you, but is flustered by your want to be intimate. You swear often, but that isn’t foul language in his eyes, this however, is foul. An expression of want, lust, that years of being repressed by the standards of your village, there truly is nothing that makes him smile more. His Dove, his Muse, saying how she needs him? It’s more than just explicit, it’s confirmation of your feelings. 

“Can I?” 

“Bloody hell, Dear Heart, you could kill me and I’d thank you.” 

“I don’t want to kill you. Just please you.” You say gently and guide him back into his seat, sliding down to your knees between his legs. He smiles down at you and pushes a hand through your hair, 

“You already do.” 

That’s all the confirmation you need to lower your mouth onto him, tongue gently trailing along the tip to catch the precum that had dribbled out. You can’t pretend to like the taste, but the gasp he lets out is worth it. You grin around him and take him in further, tongue lathering around beneath the head and tracing the skin there, knowing all too well how sensitive he is there and that it will draw more of those pretty sounds from him. It does, whimpering moans coupled with his fingers curling into your hair, almost painfully tight, but you don’t care complain- choosing instead to pull up and mouth at the shaft, leaving wet kisses in your wake. 

“Gods Dear Heart, if you could see yourself.” He struggles out through whimpers, hips bucking up with each kiss. “You’re divine, mine... gods, all mine.” He’s often jealous, has started more drunken tavern fights than you’re comfortable with because men have approached you, but his calling you ‘mine’, it’s definitive. You can’t pretend not to love it. 

There’s something oddly powerful about this, the control you feel with his prick in your mouth. Jaskier is a renowned bard, known throughout the continent, and a known romancer, but you wonder who else has seen him in this state; not out of jealousy, no, but possessiveness. You don’t care who else he has slept with before you even knew him, but you feel a perverse sort of ownership about how he looks in moments like this, eyes half closed and shadowed by thick eyelashes, bottom lip bitten plump and parted to let free each and every moan and sigh of your name. It drives you forward, eyes focused on him as you take him as far as you can, gagging slightly about him. You’ve been doing this for years but still it always feels new and somewhat taboo, especially when you feel spittle gathering in your cheeks and dripping from your mouth onto his groin. The lack of oxygen affects you much too soon and you pull up begrudgingly, making do with bobbing your head about the head, hand wrapping around the wet shaft that isn’t in your mouth, eyes focusing on him again. This sight is yours, your love, whimpering and holding onto you for dear life with quivering thighs- yes, this is your Dandelion, prick leaking, eyes tearing up and staring at you like you might be some sort of goddess. 

“Dear Heart, stop.” He chokes out, and you release him with a pop. “Gods, you... I refuse to believe you never had a man in your mouth before me.” 

“Jask, I’ve been putting my mouth on you for years now.” You say candidly. You don’t quite recall how long it has been now, the two of you sleeping together, but think it must have started your second year traveling with him. It's been so long, but he smiles and shrugs. 

“And you were as good the first time as some people are after a lifetime.” He chuckles. “Perhaps I am a little biased, but I’m right.” You aren’t entirely sure if you ought to be flattered, but his smile is enough to make you smile in return, settling your chin on his thigh. “...That floor cannot be especially comfortable.” 

“I’ve knelt on worse.” It’s true. You’ve done this on the floor of woods, in tiny cupboards in taverns, once in a rocky cave while Geralt hunted for firewood. You meant your words to reassure him, yet he still tugs you up gently into his arms, settling on his lap once more, still hard member pressed against your hip for a second or so before he slides an arm under your legs and the other about your waist and lifts you as he stands. Letting out a squeak, you cling to him, as if he would drop you at any second, which makes him chuckle as he begins walking towards the bedchambers once more. Something in the back of your mind reminds you that this hold is called bridal, you try to ignore the thought. It’s enough to know he wants that, without associating everything the two of you do with marriage. “Jaskier!” 

“I’m not fucking you on the desk, Darling.” He says, as if it’s obvious, walking into the bedchamber and placing you gently onto the bed, the soft furs are a million miles away from the hard wood you were resting on before; but you could care less about that when Jaskier is climbing up to you, head tilted to admire you. “This is much better, no? My Venus in Furs.” 

“Venus on furs.” You correct, giggling as he pouts and swats at your thigh. 

“Who is the Bard here?” He’s trying to sound authoritative but instead sounds petulant. 

“You are.” 

“So, I get to say if you’re a Venus in Furs or on furs, and I say in.” He says smugly, settling between your parted legs and draping himself over you, resting on one elbow beside your head. His hair falls about his face and you chuckle and reach out lazily for the bed-side table, picking up a ribbon you had worn the night before and use it to tie it back behind his head. “Thank you.” You nod slightly in response and lean up slightly to press your mouth to his, feeling the dull head of his member press into you slowly. He was inside you not half an hour ago, but still the stretch of him entering you makes you gasp, one hand scrambling up to grasp his wrist as he gently strokes your hair. 

“It’s alright, Lovely. Did I hurt you?” Jaskier soothes you, prompting you to shake your head. “Come on Darling, use your words.” 

“N-no, I’m not hurt.” 

“Good.” He coos, pecking your lips. You can’t disguise how the praise makes you blush, how you long to make him proud. “Do you need me to give you a moment?” 

“No, no. Please move.” You say, a little too quickly, which makes him laugh a little. 

“As you wish it.” 

He thrusts inside fully, it’s bliss. He’s thick, almost too thick, and you can feel nothing but him. The warmth of him over you, the soothing feeling of his hand on your hair, where he’s buried inside of you, the scent of lavender and sweat; he’s a sensory overload, all-encompassing and perfect. His thrusts are delicate, but speeding up with each and every thrust, wanting to please you without the worry of hurting you. Gently, you guide your leg up slightly to give him more room for his ministrations, hooking it around his waist. You receive a grunt of affirmation, and he smiles softly, some hair coming loose of the bow and sticking to the sweat on his forehead. Each thrust has you arching off of the bed, breasts heaving, and Jaskier whispers sweet nothings into your ear; about how beautiful you are, how wonderful and clever and brave, how much he loves you. He fucks you like you’re something precious, careful not to harm or upset you in these moments where you feel most exposed. Leaning down, he presses a gentle kiss to the valley of your breasts before peppering kisses along to your left breast, dragging his tongue along your nipple, tracing it with the tip of the wet muscle before fastening his lips about it and sucking gently, tongue flicking the hard nub, and hips snapping into yours much faster still. You have no clue how he’s able to keep from finishing with the speed he’s moving at. Or how he manages to slot his hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, teasingly slow and deliberate, without jolting it with his hips. After a minute or two of his lingering touches, he begins rubbing your clit with a feverishness you have never seen in him before. 

It takes less time than you expected, especially after coupling his teasing touches with thrusts that repeatedly hit upon that space inside of you that makes you shake, for you to come. You don’t expect it at all, but you feel it- see it. Darkness, settling first on the peripheral and moving in quickly until all you see is the void, and then... Colour, the world bursting into light once more, as you convulse and pulse around him, letting out a moan that verges on scream. There it is, La Petite Mort, it does feel like a little death, like you’ve reached Elysium in the arms of your bard. Your grip on his wrist becomes vice-like as the pleasure hits you in waves, and the mouth at your breast is gone, back by your ear and whispering reassuring words. Good Girl, Perfect Darling, Little Love, he cycles through every compliment he can think of as you ride the high, occasionally saying that you look so perfect coming undone on his cock, that you’re a goddess. Normally, you would warn him when you were about to climax, but you hadn’t been able to this time, but if he notices that, he doesn’t say a word that isn't complimentary. He stills, but only to watch you come undone. It takes a minute or so for you to come back to and see his smug little smile. 

“Oh, Dove.” He says softly, pressing a kiss to the crook of your neck. He’s still, too still, and the hardness inside of you is proof that he has yet to finish, so you buck your hips back against him, drawing a moan of shock from him. 

“Jask, it feels so good.” Is all you can respond between moans and he begins his thrusting with a passion, speeding up. It’s more than good, it’s everything- perfection, heaven, the space between life and death, treading that line between pleasure and overstimulation and you love it. “Oh gods, please, Jaskier.” 

“What do you want, darling? Just ask and I’ll do it.” 

“More.” 

He gives you more, thrusts increasing in speed and hardness, hand moving from your hair to the pillows, gripping them for purchase. His words cut out, at that point; no more soft words of love, in their place heavy grunts and moans that only draw more moans from you in turn. A few more thrusts are all it takes, moaning in unison and feeling him rest his forehead against your shoulder until he lets out a choked noise, followed by the flood of warmth into your sex. Jaskier sighs softly and drops down onto you with a grunt, member softening inside of you as you run your fingers through his hair, curling it lazily around your digits. 

“Your hair is so long now.” The quiet words are a world apart from what just occurred, and Jaskier laughs between pants. 

“I’ll have it cut by the time spring comes again.” 

“No, no. I like it. It’s just so very long. It rather suits you, makes you look mature.” That makes him snort. 

“It would be too much hassle to keep it looking good while we’re travelling. I might just keep it long when we settle here. Maybe even grow some facial hair. Do you think I’d suit a goatee?” He asks playfully and you roll onto your stomach to look at him, bursting into laughter at the sight of him, bottom lip jutting out and eyebrow raised. Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. “Maybe just a moustache?” He mumbles and his jutting bottom lip turns to a fully formed pout, which makes your laughter louder. He’d suit facial hair, you consider, but you’d never say it to him, instead opening your mouth to make a disparaging remark, when something gets your attention- clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle. 

“When we settle here?” 

He sighs and pulls out of you before climbing out of bed and gently uses one of the bedsheets to mop up the fluids that trickle out of you, despite your protests of it being disgusting and how it’ll stain. “That’ll do.” He says tiredly and settles at your side, holding you close when you shuffle closer still and rest your head on his pectoral, glancing towards the fire still crackling in the fireplace. It’s hypnotic, to watch the flickers of red, yellow and orange dance about, fizzling and popping all the while. He’s going to ignore the question, you think, when he begins talking once more. 

“Well, yes. I told you earlier I want to marry you, and I meant it. And there’s bound to be a day when we don’t wish to travel anymore- so we can settle. Maybe even start a family.” He speaks so softly you strain to listen, shocked by how much of your future he seems to have considered. Jaskier seldom even talks about tomorrows, never mind so far ahead. “There’s no way that I’d take you to Lettenhove, and there’s no way that I’d ever go there anyway, so... Oxenfurt. They’ve made it clear to me that there’s a full-time position waiting for me if ever I want to take it. It isn’t much, I admit, but its comfortable and you’d never want for anything, and when I grow tired of tutelage, we can find a little cottage somewhere.” 

“You have it all planned out.” 

“...Sorry.” 

“No, no. I love it.” You admit, kissing his cheek gently before returning to your position on his chest. “I just never thought you would be thinking so far ahead.” 

“With you, love, I could summon the gods and the stars, never mind just plan ahead a little.” Your breath catches in your throat, and you breathe in quickly and try to keep your mind from reeling. 

“...All of those important compositions-” You begin in a wheedling voice, trying to distract from the warmth developing in your chest. 

“Are nowhere near as important as you.” He cuts you off, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. 

“I was going to say that they’re on the floor.” Your correction makes him chuckle and gently poke you in the stomach. 

“I’ll have you on the floor in the minute.” 

“Is that a threat or a promise?”


End file.
